Poems (Jackson)/The Song he never wrote

by Helen Hunt Jackson

THE SONG HE NEVER WROTE.

IS thoughts were song, his life was singing;
 Men's hearts like harps he held and smote,
But in his heart went ever ringing,
 Ringing, the song he never wrote.

Hovering, pausing, luring, fleeting,
 A farther blue, a brighter mote,
The vanished sound of swift winds meeting,
 The opal swept beneath the boat.

A gleam of wings forever flaming,
 Never folded in nest or cote;
Secrets of joy, past name or naming;
 Measures of bliss past dole or rote;

Echoes of music, always flying,
 Always echo, never the note;
Pulses of life, past life, past dying,—
 All these in the song he never wrote.

Dead at last, and the people, weeping,
 Turned from his grave with wringing hands,—
"What shall we do, now he lies sleeping,
 His sweet song silent in our lands?

"Just as his voice grew clearer, stronger,"—
 This was the thought that keenest smote,—
"O Death! couldst thou not spare him longer?
 Alas for the songs he never wrote!"

Free at last, and his soul up-soaring,
 Planets and skies beneath his feet,
Wonder and rapture all out-pouring,
 Eternity how simple, sweet!

Sorrow slain, and every regretting,
 Love and Love's labors left the same,
Weariness over, suns without setting,
 Motion like thought on wings of flame:

Higher the singer rose and higher,
 Heavens, in spaces, sank like bars;
Great joy within him glowed like fire,
 He tossed his arms among the stars,—

"This is the life, past life, past dying;
 I am I, and I live the life:
Shame on the thought of mortal crying!
 Shame on its petty toil and strife!

"Why did I halt, and weakly tremble?"
 Even in heaven the memory smote,—
"Fool to be dumb, and to dissemble!
 Alas for the song I never wrote!"

 

THE END.